John T Cullen

The Christmas Clock: Or: Time's River of Dust, a Dark Holiday Tale John T Cullen 2014 edition

Ray Bradbury sent John T. Cullen a personal note in 2008, thanking him for writing a dark holiday fantasy worthy of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, or of Ray Bradbury's macabre yet heartwarming tales. Arthur Latchloose, a miserable, wealthy old banker, has everything--but has nobody. A modern genie with a cell phone, and a wondrous clock made for the Sun King, turn his world upside down. This is a dark holiday fantasy for men and women of all faiths and cultures, which loses nothing from its unique Christmas spirit while opening its doors of wonder and spooky humor (along with a few tears) to all. Each of us is a traveler in a river of time. Like fish in water, or merfolks patrolling the deep, we are unaware of the medium in which we travel. We are born, we grow up--we love, lose, and love again--we suffer; and ultimately, each of us becomes yet another discarded vessel among the objects that time?s rushing river has deposited in its empty riverbed. This, you see, is a river that only passes once through any point in time. In his hour of need, our friend Arthur Latchloose, by a strange confluence of fate and chance, comes upon a marvelous device that runs precious time through its hands. This wondrous, antique grandfather clock was built for the Sun King, and ended up passing among the hands of Oriental despots for centuries. During the recent many unfortunate wars in that mystical region, it came into the clutches of a desperate straggler?from yet another of the many wars there. This unfortunate soul, Major Jarlid, upon returning home from the war, is forced to sell it to pay his final debts. His buyer turns out to be a terribly wealthy but equally desperate and lonely man?our friend Arthur Latchloose. Along with the fabulous clock of the Sun King comes a genie right out of a bottle on some Oriental beach. He is, one might say, not a spirit to be rubbed the wrong way. But this djinni has not met the likes of feisty old Latchloose before now. And so begins a dark and curious tale, on a cold and snowy Christmas Eve. It is a story best told by firelight, worthy of Mr. Charles Dickens, but without Tiny Tim Cratchett or wailing ghosts clanking in chains. Instead, we have a genie constantly talking on his cell phone, working on contract and harried by his London office.